A Forest Hearth: A Romance of Indiana in the Thirties Part 8

He abandoned the weather and said somewhat abruptly:--

"Rita, if I offended you to-night, I am sorry. I cannot tell you all the pain I feel. When you dropped the handkerchief behind me, I thought--I know I was wrong and should have known better at the time--but I thought--"

"Oh, Dic," she softly interrupted, still smoothing the gra.s.s with her foot, "I am not offended; it is you."

Had the serene yellow moon burst into a thousand blazing suns, Dic could not have been more surprised.

"Rita, do you mean it? Do you really mean it?" he asked.

"Yes," she whispered.

"And were you afraid I was offended?"

"Yes," again very softly.

"And did you care?"

"Yes," with an emphatic nod of the head.

"And do you--" he paused, and she hesitatingly whispered:--

"Yes." She did not know what his question would have been; but whatever he wished to ask, "Yes" would be her answer, so she gave it, and Dic continued:--

"Do you wish me to remain for a few minutes?"

This time the "Yes" was given by a p.r.o.nounced drooping of the head, but she took his hand for an instant that she might not possibly be misunderstood.

Dic hitched his horse to the fence, and, turning to Rita, said:--

"Shall we go over to the log by the river?"

"Yes." Ah, how many yeses she had for him that night, and yes is a sweet word.

When they were seated on the log the girl waited a reasonable time for Dic to begin the conversation. He remained silent, and soon she concluded to take the matter temporarily in her own hands. He had begun a moment before, but had stopped; perhaps with a little help he would begin again.

"I was sure you were angry," she said, "and I thought you would not forgive me this time. I have so often given you cause to dislike me."

"Oh, Rita, I don't believe you know that you could not make me dislike you. When I thought that--that you did not care for me, I was so grieved that life seemed almost worthless, but I love you so dearly, Rita--" but that was just what he had determined never, never to tell her. He stopped midway in his unintentional confession, surprised that the girl did not indignantly leave him. Her heart beat wofully. Breathing suddenly became harder work than churning. She sat demurely by his side on the log, only too willing to listen, with a dictionary full of "Yeses" on the end of her tongue, and he sat beside her, unable for the moment to think. After a long pause she determined to give him a fresh start.

"I was in the wrong, Dic, and if you wish I'll apologize to you before all who saw me. But I was frightened. I should not have gone into the game. It may be right for other girls--I would not say that it is not right--but for me, I know it would be a sin--a real sin. I am not wise, but, Dic, something tells me that certain things cannot occupy a middle ground. They must be holy and sacred, or they are sinful, and I--I did not want it to--to happen then, because--because--" there she stopped speaking. She had unintentionally used the word "then," with slight emphasis; but slight as it was, it sent Dic's soul soaring heavenward, buoyant with ecstasy.

"Why, Rita, why did you not want it to happen--" he feared to say "then," and it would seem from the new position of his arm, he also feared she might fall backward off the log.

"Because--because," came in soft whispers. The beautiful head was drooped, and the face was hidden from even the birds and the moon, while Dic's disengaged hand, out of an abundance of caution lest she might fall, clasped hers.

"Because--why, Rita?" he pleaded.

Softly came the response, "Because I wanted to be alone with--with--you when it--it happened." It happened before she had finished her sentence, but when it was finished the head lay upon his shoulder, and the birds, should they awaken, or the moon, or any one else, might see for aught she cared. It was holy and sacred now, and she felt no shame: she was proud. The transfer of herself had been made. She belonged to him, and he, of course, must do with his own property as he saw fit. It was no longer any affair of hers.

The victory of complete surrender is sometimes all-conquering; at any rate, Dic was subjugated for life. His situation was one that would be hard to improve upon in the way of mere earthly bliss. Heaven may furnish something better, and if it does, the wicked certainly have no conception of what they are going to miss. Tom, for example, would never have put b.u.t.tons in the offering. Doug would not gamble and drink. Poor, painted Nanon would starve rather than sin. Old man Jones, in the amen corner, would not swindle his neighbor; nor would Wetmore, the Baptist, practise the holy calling of shepherd, having in his breast the heart of a wolf. We all, saving a woman here and there, have our sins, little and great, and many times in the day we put in jeopardy that future bliss.

But I console myself with the hope that there is as much forgiveness in heaven as there is sin on earth, save for the hypocrite. There may be forgiveness even for him, but I trust not.

I have done this bit of philosophizing that I might give Dic and Rita a moment to themselves on the sycamore divan. You may have known the time in your life when you were thankful for the sight of a dear friend's back.

There was little said between our happy couple for many minutes after the explosion; but like a certain lady, who long ago resided for a time in a beautiful garden, the girl soon began to tempt the man: not to eat apples, for Rita was one of the "women here and there" spoken of above.

She was pure and sinless as the light of a star. Her tempting was of another sort. Had Rita been Eve, there would have been no fall.

After several efforts to speak, she said, "Now you will not go to New York, will you?"

"Why, Rita," he responded confidently, "of course I'll go. There is more reason now for my going than ever before."

"Why more now than ever before?" asked the girl.

"Because I want money that I may support you," he responded. "I'll tell you a great secret, Rita, but you must promise you will never tell it to any one."

"I promise--cross my heart," she answered, and Dic knew that wild horses could not tear the secret from her girlish breast.

"I'm studying law," continued Dic. "Billy Little has been buying law books for me. They are too expensive for me to buy. He bought me 'Blackstone's Commentaries'--four large volumes." The big words tasted good in his mouth, and were laden with sweetness and wisdom for her ears.

"I have read them twice," continued Dic. "He is going to buy 'Kent,' and after that I'll take up works on pleading and special subjects. He has consulted Mr. Switzer, and if I can save enough money to keep you and me for two or three years in idleness, I am to go into Mr. Switzer's office to learn the practice. It is a great and beautiful study."

"Oh, it must be, Dic," cried the girl, delightedly. "To think that you will be a lawyer. I have always known that you would some day be a great man. Maybe you will be a judge, or a governor, or go to Congress."

"That is hardly possible," responded Dic, laughing.

"Indeed it is possible," she responded very seriously. "Anything is possible for you--even the presidency, and I'll help you. I will not be a millstone, Dic. I'll help you. We'll work together--and you'll see I'll help you."

Accordingly, she began to help him at once by putting her arm coaxingly over his shoulder, and saying:--

"But if you are going to do all this you should not waste your time leading horses to New York."

"But you see, Rita," he responded, "I can make a lot of money by going, and I shall see something of the world, as you heard Billy Little say."

"Oh, you would rather see the world than me?" queried the girl, drawing away from him with an injured air, whereupon Dic, of course, vowed that he would rather see her face than a thousand worlds.

"Then why don't you stay where you can see it?" she asked poutingly.

"Because, as I told you, I want to make money so that when I go into Mr.

Switzer's office I can support you--and the others--" He stopped, surprised by his words.

"The others? What others?" asked the girl. That was a hard question to answer, and he undertook it very lamely.

"You see, Rita," he stammered, "there will be--there might--there may be--don't you know, Rita?"

"No, I don't know, Dic. Why are you so mysterious? What others--who--oh!" And she hid her face upon his breast, while her arms stole gently about his neck.

"You see," remarked Dic, speaking softly to the black waves of l.u.s.trous hair, "I must take Iago's advice and put money in my purse. I have always hoped to be something more than I am. Billy Little, who has been almost a father to me, has burned the ambition into me. But with all my yearning, life has never held a real purpose compared with that I now have in you. The desire for fame, Rita, the throbbing of ambition, the l.u.s.t for gold and dominion, are considered by the world to be the great motives of human action. But, Rita, they are all simply means to one end. There is but one great purpose in life, and that is furnished to a man by the woman he loves. Billy Little gave me the thought. It is not mine. How he knew it, being an old bachelor, I cannot tell."

"Perhaps Billy Little has had the--the purpose and lost it," said Rita, being quite naturally in a sentimental mood.